Foxmask

by Juliet Marillier

  “The girl persuaded us.” Creidhe barely recognized Gudrun’s voice, it was so subdued. The woman sounded almost frightened.

  “The girl?” Asgrim’s tone was scathing. “How could she influence such a choice? Her part in this is already mapped. You know what is right; you know the way this unfolds.”

  “Since we knew you could not take action in time,” Gudrun said, “there seemed no harm in a prayer or two, for Jofrid’s sake.”

  “Rules, Gudrun,” Asgrim chided. “None of us can afford to weaken on this.”

  “It won’t happen again,” said Gudrun.

  There was a polite cough. “To the matter in hand.” This voice was calm and measured: Brother Niall’s. A wave of relief flooded through Creidhe, and she stepped out from the sleeping quarters. They were standing, the three of them, Asgrim still in heavy outdoor cloak and muddy boots, with a knife at his belt, Gudrun by the fire, the hermit caped and tranquil near the door, ready for travel. There was no sign of Brother Breccan or the youth, Colm. Surely the Ruler had not come here alone. He must have brought a few men with him. Perhaps . . .

  “Thorvald and Sam,” she burst out, “are they here? Have they come back?” Home; she could go home, and the nightmare would be over. Brother Niall was regarding her somewhat quizzically; she realized she had forgotten her manners.

  “I’m sorry.” Creidhe addressed the hermit. “I overslept. Are you leaving now?”

  “Ah,” said Asgrim before Niall could reply. “Creidhe. I’m told you did your best to help in the sad events of last night. We’re indebted to you. I’m afraid I’ve come alone, but for Skapti, my guard. Your young men are much occupied. Brother Niall was just going. Then, I think some breakfast would do us good.”

  Gudrun turned her back and began purposefully clanking pots and pans.

  “Don’t let us keep you, Brother.” There was ice in Asgrim’s voice.

  “Ah.” Niall’s tone was an echo of the other’s. “We have a little unfinished business; I don’t recall your responding to my suggestion, save by losing your temper. I find silent meditation an excellent aid to self-control. You should try it some ti—”

  “Enough!” Asgrim thundered. Platters rattled on the table. “Leave now! Your suggestion does not deserve an answer, it is patently ridiculous. A young unwed girl, alone up on that hilltop in a household of men? Sheer lunacy!”

  “We are sworn to celibacy, every one of us,” Niall said mildly. “Creidhe’s safety would be assured in the hermitage, far more so than it can be here. What about last night? Such visitations do not cross our own threshold. You should at least give your young guest the choice.” He was looking straight at Creidhe, trying to convey some message with those cryptic, dark eyes.

  “Oh,” she said, taken aback. “Oh—could I go there?” This was a reprieve from imprisonment: no more strange silences, no more eerie manifestations, no more glum Gudrun and grim Frida. Best of all, there would be folk she could talk to, honest, good men in the mold of the brothers of Holy Island. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” she said to Asgrim, “but I would like that. Just until Thorvald and Sam come back. I will go, I think; thank you so much.” She gave the hermit a smile; he inclined his head courteously.

  There was a quality in the ensuing silence that made her very uncomfortable indeed. Gudrun had ceased pretending to cook and now stood very still; Asgrim was drawing a deep breath.

  “That’s settled then,” said Brother Niall calmly. “I’ll wait while you pack a bag. We live frugally, but you’ll be warm and well fed. As you say, it’s just until your friends return. This is much more suitable.” He set a hand to the door.

  “I don’t think so.” Asgrim was not shouting now: he held his voice very soft. “Creidhe,” he said, turning toward her and taking her hands in his, “would you not wish to be here in the settlement when your friends arrive? It can be only a day or two until their return. Why not stay with us a little longer? I’m sure Jofrid would like that; I’m told she has taken a fancy to you, and of course she will be in need of comfort after her sad loss.” He sighed. “Another fine boy; another future snatched away. Jofrid weeps without cease. Creidhe, I know you will not want to miss your friends’ homecoming. They’ll have so much to tell you.” He glanced at Gudrun.

  “Asgrim’s right,” Gudrun said. “Besides, you’ve helped us beyond what anyone would have expected; what happened wasn’t your fault. You did your best. Let us repay that if we can. Stay a while longer; won’t your menfolk be expecting to find you here?”

  Creidhe had never heard her make such an extended speech before. “Oh,” she said. She thought of Thorvald’s long journey back to Brightwater; she imagined his smile when he saw her again, safe and well. That, surely, was worth a day or two of waiting. And yet Brother Niall had said it wasn’t safe here; what about those voices that brought death on the very heels of life? What if they came again? He had not had the chance to tell her what he meant. “I don’t know. Will Thorvald and Sam really be here so soon?” It felt as if she’d been waiting forever.

  “Undoubtedly, my dear,” Asgrim said, smiling. “I have this very night come from the encampment where they’re staying. They speak of you often, and with affection. I’ll take pleasure in relating their exploits over a little breakfast, if Gudrun hasn’t forgotten how to cook, that is.”

  “Creidhe should come with me,” Niall said firmly. “I am certain that is the best course. It isn’t so very far, after all; I’m sure we—”

  “Enough.” This time the Ruler’s voice had an edge as sharp as a blade. “Let the girl wait for her sweetheart; she’s been patient enough, don’t you think? Besides, there’ll be plenty of time after they return for her to come up and visit your establishment if she chooses. The young men can accompany her: nothing improper in that. What do you say, Creidhe?”

  “Please stay, Creidhe,” Gudrun said. “Jofrid needs you.” This was so unexpected, Creidhe could hardly summon a reply.

  “I think you’ve outstayed your welcome, Brother Niall,” said Asgrim, and at that moment the door opened to reveal a very large man clad in garments of leather and armed with a thrusting-spear. “Good-bye, Brother Niall,” the Ruler added.

  “I’m sorry.” Creidhe found her voice. “I would have liked to come; I would have liked to talk to you and the others. But I must be here when Thorvald and Sam get back; that’s what they’ll be expecting.”

  Brother Niall nodded. He seemed quite unperturbed by the fierce-looking giant at his back and the grim glare of the Ruler. “Remember,” he told Creidhe quietly, “we’re there if you need us. Our door is always open. Just take the track up the eastern side of the valley and you’ll find us. Good day to you, Gudrun.” The white-haired man turned and went out; the big guard stepped back to let him by. Beyond him, Creidhe glimpsed Brother Breccan and young Colm waiting on the path. The rain had abated to a fine drizzle. She turned back to the Ruler.

  “Tell me,” she said eagerly. “Tell me about Thorvald and Sam.”

  On the Isle of Clouds, the rain came in a cool, refreshing whisper, blanketing the slopes, silvering the grasses and setting small birds chattering. Keeper stood on the eastern hillside with Small One at his heels, looking across to the Isle of Storms. His eyes were keen: small boats hugged the far shore, driven hard before the gale as they made their way in from fishing. Smoke came sideways from the shelter at Council Fjord. Gulls screamed above Dragon Isle, competing for the best spots. Here on the island, the birds had no need to war thus. Here, they understood him, and he them. They gave him what was necessary to keep Small One alive: a few eggs, carefully chosen; their own bodies, taken gently, with love. There was a way to do the killing, a right way, with soft, strong hands and words of respect for the sacrifice made. Men were different. They came in anger, came where they did not belong. When he killed a man, he saw no reason for mercy.

  Later, Small One stirred in his sleep, whimpering. Keeper did not sleep. He sat by the remnants of the cooking fire, still
glowing red in its stone-lined pit, and listened to the voices. There was a storm over Council Fjord, but his ears were a hunter’s, finely tuned. This song carried far and deep, threading through the turmoil of gale and deluge. He laid his hand over Small One’s ear where it showed above the threadbare blanket. His other hand went to his own neck, touching the ornament he wore, a narrow circle of plaited hair, once brightest gold, now soiled and faded to no color, but strong: the strongest part of him. Sula. Her name was a talisman to keep them safe. The voices keened on the wind, ebbed and flowed with the waves, sobbed their bereavement deep inside him. He would not heed them. Sula, I keep my promise still. I am true.

  The music rose to a screaming, a frenzied wailing that tore at his heart. Small One cried out in his dreams, and Keeper lay down by him, curving his body to accommodate his, stretching an arm across in protection. He waited. At length the voices faded and were gone, their harvest complete until the next time, and the next. How many seasons, how many children for the Long Knife people? He would not think of that. What had befallen Asgrim’s folk was their own doing; their own folly had made it so.

  Small One moaned again, shifting in the darkness.

  “I’m here,” Keeper whispered. “Sleep. You are safe. I will always be here.”

  FIVE

  With whom shall a man keep faith?

  A silent god, an absent brother?

  Into the void the heart cries, enough.

  MONK’S MARGIN NOTE

  They were camped at the head of the long western fjord, at a place where there had once been a settlement with turf-roofed huts and a substantial hall suited to councils and gatherings. Though it was not so far from Bright-water, it might have been another land, so different was the pattern here. Many men were staying in the encampment and sleeping communally in the hall. Their days were employed in what appeared to be preparations for war. There was a rule nobody broke: no leaving without Asgrim’s consent. As it was, nobody ever asked to go anywhere. There was an unvoiced understanding that trips out of camp happened only when the Ruler had business to be done. Generally, two or three men stood guard on the single track eastward, just to be sure. Thorvald came to understand that, from early spring to midsummer at least, these islanders had no contact at all with their wives and children, their old folk, their home communities. This was necessary because of the hunt.

  The days were spent in refurbishing boats, fashioning weapons, preparing the accoutrements of combat. They were all kept busy, though Thorvald watched the pattern of it with a critical eye, seeing much room for improvement. He kept quiet, for now. As for the Ruler, he stalked about the encampment inspecting the men’s work, always shadowed by one or other of his big bodyguards. Thorvald almost never heard Asgrim praise his warriors’ efforts. His criticisms, on the other hand, were sharp and wounding. The Ruler seemed on edge, as if waiting for something. He kept himself to himself, sleeping apart in a hut reserved for the purpose, taking his meals for the most part in silence. He would appear in the evenings to give brisk orders for the next day’s work. The pair of formidable warriors who served as his personal guards were an additional spur to obedience.

  Asgrim’s rule was absolute, and he did not hesitate to enforce it by physical means when necessary. Once, a fellow was caught helping himself from the ale keg. Thorvald did not witness the punishment, but whatever it was, the culprit was unable to stand straight for three days afterward. The two men deemed responsible for Creidhe’s near fall from the cliff path had never reappeared. When Thorvald asked after them, Orm muttered something about the mouth of the lake and a certain precipice, and then retreated into tight-lipped silence.

  Asgrim or no Asgrim, they needed materials to patch up the Sea Dove. It seemed appropriate, therefore, simply to do as they were bidden. As soon as he made his background known, Sam was put to work mending the small boats drawn up on the tidal flats below the shelter. There was a reasonable supply of wood: lengths of pine and ash, other bits and pieces, some already shaped, some just as the tide had delivered them. Sam found friends of a sort and set to his tasks willingly, observing to Thorvald that it shouldn’t be long at all before they were headed for home with the Sea Dove as good as new. The mast was going to be a challenge, but he’d spotted a piece he could work with; he’d made a mark on it, just to be sure. Once these poor excuses for boats were watertight, he’d ask politely for what he was owed, and that would be that.

  It was not so simple for Thorvald. Back home in Hrossey he had moved in his mother’s circle and that of Eyvind and Nessa, the group that maintained the order and culture of the Light Isles. He was used to the open discussion of strategy, the planning of endeavors in trade or alliance, the airing of matters of justice and law. Debate excited him; ideas intrigued him. Here, there was no possibility of that. These islanders were no more than simple farmers and fishermen; they never questioned the Ruler’s judgment and apparently never sought to know more than the little he chose to tell them.

  It was evident that part of the rule Asgrim imposed on them related to the keeping of secrets. Sam appeared to be chattering away all day, and his fellow workers answering readily enough, yet at suppertime Sam had nothing to tell but tales of wind, tide and improbably large codfish. For Thorvald, making conversation with these men was like blundering through a maze full of blind corners and dead ends. He needed to know what this was all about. He wanted to know. As the son of this man who called himself Ruler, there could be a place for him here, a place and a purpose, if he did things right. It was clear to him the way they were going about their work was less than efficient, and he had ideas on how they could fix that. But these people were universally dour, sad and silent, and he could not work out how to break through the barrier they set around themselves.

  Many days passed and still Thorvald had gleaned little information as to the nature of the hunt they spoke of. He had worked alongside the men on the preparation of weapons and had moved through the steps of battle, watching how they went about it, storing away what he learned. He wanted to talk to Asgrim. It seemed ever more probable that this tight-lipped autocrat was Somerled; his ruthless authority and caustic tongue underlined it. In his mind, Thorvald placed the man in the tale Margaret had told him, a story of cruel conquest and coldblooded fratricide, and found Asgrim fitted there too well. And there was the manner, guarded, evasive, cryptic. In that, and in the watchful, dark eyes, Thorvald saw, uncomfortably, a reflection of himself.

  He planned to ask Asgrim a few penetrating questions, without quite stating the truth of his mission here. He would make sure he obtained answers that proved it one way or the other. If Somerled had become Ruler of the Isles, he had done better for himself than anyone would have expected. He had forged a life; he had made himself once more a leader of men. On the other hand, the flaws in Asgrim’s leadership became clearer to Thorvald every day. He itched to step in, to start making changes. All he needed was an explanation. If the Ruler would just tell him exactly what this hunt entailed, he was sure he could offer many helpful suggestions, starting with something that would wake these would-be warriors out of a state of mind that seemed to accept defeat before battle was ever joined. But Asgrim chose to make himself unavailable. He had shown no inclination, after that first meeting, to engage either Thorvald or Sam in conversation, and Thorvald began to believe they would simply earn their wood and go back to Blood Bay with no more said. His frustration grew. He needed to learn whether Asgrim was worthy to be told the truth. After a while, he began to suspect that perhaps Asgrim knew it already and had chosen not to recognize it publicly. The Ruler was definitely avoiding him.

  Meanwhile there was work to be done, and at a certain point Thorvald found he simply could not let them continue to do it so badly. If Ash had taught him anything it was to make best use of what you had, whether it be raw materials or talent and enterprise. Besides, their attitude was irritating him. Why bother fighting at all if you didn’t believe you could win?

  They were
finishing off a batch of spears. The shafts had been hewn with axe, adze and knife from the limbs of a great, dead ash, a treasure of immense worth cast up in spring storm and weathered until another spring. The spearheads were of iron. The upper reaches of this island held bog ore, and on the hillside above this sheltered cove a small forge worked night and day. Its glowing fire, fueled by dung and peat, was the beating heart of this settlement of men.

  These were throwing spears, the points long and slender, some leaf-shaped, some triangular and barbed. They were cruder than the ones Eyvind’s men used back in Hrossey, the quality of the metal inferior, the shape without refinement; still, they were capable of damage, if used skilfully. Thorvald was shaping the end of a shaft, where the spearhead would be pinned in place. Today they had made ten or more, and arrows as well. His adze moved carefully, smoothing the wood.

  “I’ve noticed,” he observed casually, “we’re concentrating on these, and the arrows. Yet you have a big supply set by already. Lose a lot, do you?”

  The man next to him gave a grunt of assent. Others nodded, their hands never pausing in the steady work.

  “Of course,” Thorvald went on, “you know about loosening the pin?”

  They looked at him without comment, hard faces expressionless.